


Astra Inclinant

by JustGettingBy



Series: Per aspera, ad astra [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Angst, Backstory, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bisexual Disaster, Bisexuality, Character Study, First Time, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Gentle Sex, Growing Up, Idiots in Love, Introspection, M/M, Missing Scene, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Outdoor Sex, Poetry, Post-Season/Series 01, Rough Sex, Their communication needs work, Time Skips, Topping from the Bottom, Xenophobia, the apology, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22080115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustGettingBy/pseuds/JustGettingBy
Summary: When Jaskier is seven, he first hears the myths of the Witchers--those foul, half-human beasts.When Jaskier is twenty-one, he meets Geralt.He falls in love with him not long after.---Translation in Russian/русский avalible
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Per aspera, ad astra [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601233
Comments: 173
Kudos: 5905
Collections: Bruss, Geralt is Sorry, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted more about Jaskier, so I wrote more about Jaskier. I've never read the books or played the games, so this is based off the TV show and therefore could be considered AU.
> 
> Chapter 1 is rated T, Chapter 2 is E
> 
> \---  
> Now translated into Russian thanks to the wonderful Timothy:  
> https://ficbook.net/readfic/8967592

When Jaskier is seven, he first hears the myth of the Witcher. 

He’s playing knight with the other boys. He doesn’t like it much, but he likes the feeling of being included, so he’s deep in the thicket smacking Ricon with a twig he’s pulled from a sapling. 

“Sir knight, we must work together!” Ricon cries. He rolls in the dirt and leaps back to his feet. “I cannot best the werewolf alone!”

Jaskier shrugs. “Sure.”

Ricon raises his stick—uh, _mighty sword_ —and marches forward. He doesn’t seem to care he’s dirtying his clothes. 

Jaskier walks along behind Ricon but moves on the edge of the path where the grass hasn’t been stomped to mud. 

“Sir Yonas,” Ricon says in an overly-grand voice, “will you join our quest?”

“Aye!” Yonas nods. “For glory! We will eat the wolf for dinner.”

“And make buttons from his teeth!” Ricon raises his fists. 

From the edge of the thicket, someone laughs. A strangled and bleating chuckle. “ _That’s_ the best you can come up with?” 

Jaskier turns. Ricon’s older cousin, Idris, leans against a tree. He tosses an apple in the air and catches it easily. Sinks in his teeth. 

Ricon puts his hands on his hips. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing, really,” Idris says, wandering toward the three of them. “It’s just that your plans are terrible.”

“And what would you have us do instead?” Yonas asks. “There’s a werewolf eating villagers.”

_He’s getting brave_ , Jaskier thinks. Idris is over twice their age. Ricon’s granny would wring Idris’ neck if they ever scuffled, but Yonas doesn’t have the same protection. 

Idris takes Yonas’ challenge in stride. “I’d hire a Witcher.” 

The other two boys stare at Idris. 

Jaskier scratches his head. “I’d never trust a witch.”

Idris rolls his eyes. “Not a _witch._ A _Witcher.”_

Jaskier doesn’t know the difference. 

“You’ve never heard of a Witcher?” Ricon whispers. 

Jaskier shrugs. 

“They’re monster hunters—they’re in it for the coin. Pay ‘em and they solve your problem,” Idris says. “You can tell it’s a Witcher if it carries two swords: one for monsters and one for men. They go out and trek through the bogs and get covered in monster guts while _you_ knights stay back in court. Eating your boar meat and goat cheese, drinking your ale, bedding women. Not a bad deal, eh?” He smirks again and Jaskier (though he’s not one for a sword) debates breaking his twig across the idiot’s face. 

“There’s no nobility in that,” says Ricon. 

“Maybe not, but no one cares about nobility in the real world.” Idris spins the apple in his hand again before biting into the meat. He pulls a ribbon of the peel off with his teeth. 

_Bit dramatic._ Jaskier looks from Ricon to Yonas to Idris. He has to admit, Idris does have a good idea. Why get yourself killed when you could pay someone else? Jaskier thinks he’ll stay out of as many fights as he can. 

“ _I’d_ never hire a Witcher,” Ricon says. He crosses his arms and nods in a definitive sort of way. 

“Nor would I,” says Yonas. 

Jaskier shrugs. “Seems like it might not be a bad deal.” He likes the idea of lounging around and skirting his responsibility. Work smarter, not harder, after all. 

Idris laughs. 

Ricon turns. “A Witcher might kill a monster, but hiring one is just inviting another one into your village. Witcher’s don’t feel. I heard a rumour that when they hunt, their eyes turn black as poison. They’re half-feral beasts at the best of times, but when their eyes turn black, they’re no better than a monster. They only care for the kill and the coin.”

“And bedding women,” Idris chimes in. 

Ricon honest-to-god scowls. “See? They’re not noble. They’re not like knights.” He swings his fake sword through the air. “They’re not even _human._ They’re bloody mutant scum. _”_

“I pity you if you ever cross a Witcher in real life,” Idris says. He chucks the core of his Apple deep in the woods. “But for now—if we’re all playing pretend—let’s say I’m the Witcher. And you boys owe me some coin.”

Idris sticks his hand out, expectantly. “Come on, cough it up.” 

* * *

When Jaskier is eleven, he has to admit he’s enjoying his education. He’d never thought he’d admit it. 

The other students always whined about the work they had to do. Said they hated the readings. Called them boring. 

Jaskier thinks there’s something incredible in books. He opens the pages and the worlds bloom to life: far away lands where the sky glows pink in midday, icefields that stretch to the cusp of the horizon, moss-covered mountains that twist as they reach upward, the middle of the placid ocean at night where the waters are so clear they mirror the stars. How could anyone hate reading? 

Jaskier flips another page in the story. Judith slays Holofernes. Lops off his head while he’s drunk. What would it be like to live a life with that kind of adventure? 

His town is small. Everyone knows everyone and all their business. He can’t escape their watchful glares. The most anyone can hope for here is to join a guild. Be a stonemason or bread maker. Maybe a merchant, if they were aiming high. 

When Jaskier crawls into his bed at night, his mind wanders. He’d like to tell stories someday, he decides. He’ll make his living with his words. 

Jaskier stares at the wooden beams of the roof. His plan is foolproof—he can’t doubt it for a second. The only possible hitch is that he has no idea where these stories he wants to tell will come from. He rubs at the sleep in the corner of his eye. The best tale he can make up is one about a knight who slays a werewolf and saves the princess. It’s good, he knows. It _is_ good. Right?

But he can’t shake the feeling that something is missing. 

* * *

When Jaskier is thirteen, he sees a Witcher in real life. 

He’s in the stable next to his house—a grand old thing on the edge of the village—after a ride and he brushes a knot out of the mane of his horse Poppy. Well, it’s his mother’s horse really (she had Poppy even before Jaskier was born) but all the same. He runs his hand over her neck and she nickers in response and nuzzles her head in closer. Her coat is the colour of sand after a light rain and—in Jaskier’s opinion—she’s the best horse in the whole world. Even if she is getting older. 

“Boy.”

Jaskier turns. In front of him stands a man, dirty and sulking and reeking like animal entrails. His dark hair is slicked back with grease and guts. Jaskier stands there, Poppy next to him, and gawks. 

“Which way to the blacksmiths?” 

Jaskier stares. The man is huge. All bulky muscles and broad shoulders. This beard is wild and unruly. Around his neck hangs a strange pendant with some sigil he’s never seen before. The man is strange, for certain. But more than anything Jaskier can’t look away from his _eyes._ His eyes are the most peculiar shade of yellow. Like a cat. 

“The blacksmith?” The man raises his eyebrow expectantly. 

Jaskier points East down the street as a way of explanation. “Turn left at the crossroad. It’s the last house on the street.”

The man nods curtly and stalks off. The villagers part around him. They stick to the sides of the streets while he lumbers through the middle. 

“Jaskier!” 

Jaskier glances over his shoulder. Ricon runs up the street, panting. 

“What’d he say?”

“What?”

Ricon rolls his eyes. He looks disheveled, as if he’d been running for some time. “ _The Witcher._ What’d he say?” 

“He was a Witcher?” Jaskier turns back to the street and looks for the man. It’s too late—he’s vanished in the crowd. 

“Gods, you’re thick sometimes.”

Jaskier rolls his shoulder. He is _not_ thick. It’s easy to dismiss him—so many others have done it—and he knows he rambles too much at times, but he is not dense. There’s just so much world out there and he only knows a small slice.   
  


“Yes, that was a Witcher,” Ricon says. “I was gathering herbs in the forest for my father when I saw him come up the path.” He leans against the fence of the stable. “Came in from the West, I think. Probably in the valley. The rumour is there’s a manticore there. Ate a whole pilgrimage.” 

Jaskier knows the story. “Well, there’s probably not a manticore anymore.”

“I guess.” Ricon sighs. “I wish I could’ve killed it.”

Jaskier says nothing. He looks at his friend—who’s clearly lost in his own fantasy—and moves to put his brush away. 

“You know,” Ricon says, dropping his voice to no more than a whisper. “I saw a fortune teller a few weeks ago.” 

“Did you?” 

“Yep. She says my fate is to bring down monsters.”

Jaskier tries his best not to sigh at Ricon. The other boy is thin as a rail. His limbs stick out awkwardly and he can hardly manage to walk with grace. Not to mention that his head barely reaches Jaskier’s shoulders. “Is it now?”

Ricon nods. “As a soldier, I’m sure. Maybe they’ll knight me for it.”

Jaskier knows better than to argue with his friend. He’s dreamed of the same thing for as long as they’d known each other. “Maybe,” Jaskier says. 

“Where’d he go off to? I wanna see the Witcher. Find out what weapons he uses—you know, that sort of thing. Professional curiosity.”

“I pointed him toward the blacksmith.”

Ricon nods. “Right, thanks mate.” He grins, wide and mischievous. “Let’s hope this one’s not the butcher, hey? I’d hate to cross that mutant.” He jogs down the street to the blacksmith’s place. 

Jaskier nods as Ricon leaves. He’s heard that story, too. A Witcher gone rogue. Butchered half a village while they were at the market. Somehow, Jaskier finds the story difficult to believe. A man who’s income rests solely on his reputation would surely do a better job trying to protect it. 

That night, Jaskier sits with his mother next to the fire. She’s working on her embroidery—a finch, this time. 

“Mother?”

“Mhmm?” She doesn’t look up. She keeps pressing her needle through the fabric and looping it up again, the yellow thread following. She seems tired, Jaskier thinks. Dark bags hang under her eyes (not that he’d ever mention that, of course) and she moves slower than he remembers. When he was young, her hair was only grey at her temples. Now, her head’s mostly grey, save the few wiry brown strands that streak her braid. His parents were both older than most when he was born. His four siblings were already adults themselves when he was born. A surprise, surely, to a couple who must’ve thought their days of crying babies were behind them. 

“Do you believe in fate?” he asks. 

His mother pauses and sets down her embroidery. “What makes you ask that?” 

“Ricon said something about a fortune teller today.” Jaskier pulls a thread on his sleeve. Would he really go on to fight monsters? “I can’t get my mind off it.”

His mother chuckles lightly. “I know the feeling.” She shifts on the couch and meets Jaskier’s eyes. “ _Astra inclinant, sed non obligant_ ,” she says. 

“Err, thanks, mom.” Jaskier scratches the back of his head. 

She smiles. “The stars incline us, they do not bind us.”

“So, you don’t believe in fate?”

“Do you?”

Jaskier thinks. “I don’t know.”

“I’m not sure I know either. The stars may point us, but we have to take responsibility for our own lives at the end of the day.” She turns to her loop again and picks up the needle. “Now, don’t go running around repeating that. There’s many in the village that feel differently than you and me.”

Jaskier nods. _Astra inclinant, sed non obligant._ He likes the sound of that phrase. 

* * *

When Jaskier is fourteen, his older tutor leaves. 

The new one teaches with a cane. 

He decides he doesn’t like learning anymore. 

* * *

When Jaskier is sixteen, he starts to see Isopel, the seamstress’s daughter. When they’re not together, he thinks about her often. Her silky dark hair, her honey-brown eyes, the curve of her nose, her wild smile. He’s in love, he thinks. 

He sees Isopel in secret. His parents won’t approve—they want to set him up with the niece of some minor vassal, Ninette. He’d met the girl once when they were still young. She was pretty, certainly, with golden curls and high-cut cheekbones. She always carried herself in a regal sort of way. 

But Ninette was a bitch. Hated music and stories. She cared only for money and desired only to marry someone above her station—a man who could buy her the finest dresses imported from distant lands and feed her the richest foods and serve her the rarest wines. Jaskier doubted she’d care much for the man’s rank. The money was enough for her. 

And he’d never have money, not the kind she wanted. A union between the two of them would end in mutual disappointment. Jaskier needed someone with a streak of adventure—someone like Isopel. 

It’s the height of summer when she drags him into the forest. He follows. He always follows. 

She leads him down to the river, to the narrowest part where it bends before opening up again, and kicks off her shoes. The stones that pebble the shore are slick with moss and mud. Isopel hitches her skirt and steps lightly on them. Halfway across the river, she stops. “Aren’t you coming?”

Jaskier smiles. “Always.” He unlaces his boots and rolls down his stocking and sets them under an old oak. He rolls the hem of his pants up to his knees and steps on the rocks. Around him, the water rushes. It’s shallow here, but that’s all the worse. If he slips, he’ll meet the rocks. He’s got no doubt the swift current will rake his body over their jagged edges. He can swim—if it were deeper, he’d be fine. 

“You scared?” Isopel teases. 

“Never.” Jaskier leaps forward. The sun overhead beams down. Sweat gathers at the nape of his neck. He’s certain it’s curling the back whisps of his hair. 

He reaches the other side without falling. Isopel sits on a fallen log on the river shore. Jaskier joins. He wraps his arm around her and sticks his feet into the cool water. 

“See? That wasn’t so bad,” Isopel says. “You didn’t even have to go in.”

Jaskier smirks. “Shame, almost. It’s boiling today.” 

Isopel kicks her foot and splashes a skiff of water at Jaskier. She laughs and scoops her hands down, pulling up a handful of water. She throws it at Jaskier. He welcomes the cool wave over the side of his face. It lessens the rigid summer heat. 

Jaskier jumps forward, kicking up water in his wake. He cups the sides of Isopel’s face and kisses her. She pulls his bottom lip with her teeth—a playful nip. 

He could stay in this moment forever. 

But they must turn back, eventually. The wind back through the path to the village. 

Eventually, the summer wains to fall. The leaves redden. The bitter winds blow in from the Western mountains. 

Isopel loses interest. She doesn’t say it, but Jaskier can feel it. When they’re together, she’s distant. She makes excuses to leave early. Shows up late. He knows he’s losing her, and his fear only doubles when the blacksmith’s son returns. He’s three years older than them and spent the summer in a village a few days away, apprenticing under the same smith his father had. When the boy left, he was a skinny thing. Gangly and awkward. 

Over the summer, he must’ve grown half a foot. He’s certainly grown into his long limbs—the portions no longer look awkward. On top of that, he built some decent muscles into his lean frame. He’s a good looking man, Jaskier will admit. Isopel’s noticed the smith’s son as well. Jaskier caught her eyeing him in the village the other day. 

Over a pint, he confesses his fears to Ricon. “I can never compete with him.” He runs his hand through his hair, pushing his brown swoop sideways. 

“You’re right, you know.”

“Thanks, mate. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.” He drowns his sorrow in another gulp of ale.

“No—no, that’s not what I meant,” Ricon says. “I mean you’ll never compete with him physically, so you’ll have to try something else.”

“Like that’d work.”

“There’s plenty of average-looking men who woo women just fine. Get creative, Jaskier. You’ll find a way.” 

That night, Jaskier sets at his desk and lights a candle. He scrawls a poem and crosses it out. He writes another and decides that’s rubbish too. Finally, past midnight and on the fifteenth draft, he has one he’s happy with. 

He reads it to her the next day, under the apple trees outside of town. She blushes a deep red and kisses him until his head feels light. 

By the end of the week, every girl in town has heard about the poem, even though they were still trying to keep their relationship secret. Isopel fawns over him again. He writes her another poem, and another after that. By the time he’s reached his tenth, he sets it to music. 

When winter rolls in and the first snow blankets the town, Isopel breaks up with him. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “You’re a good man, Jaskier. But this isn’t working. Not anymore. I’m tired of hiding this.”

She’s courting the blacksmith’s son by the second snowfall. 

Jaskier writes two songs and half a dozen poems about heartbreak. He resigns himself to an eventual betrothal to Ninette and whatever misery that union will bring. 

A letter arrives a few moons later. Ninette eloped with a wealthy merchant. Jaskier writes a poem about that, too. 

One night, he lays all his work across his desk. He’s scrawled poems on every scrap of paper he could find. Some of the papers are cramped—he’d worked a dozen poems into the paper until there wasn’t a blank space left. 

He heard, once, that if a man loves a woman, he writes her a sonnet. If the man writes his woman a hundred sonnets then, well, the man must love sonnets. 

* * *

When Jaskier is eighteen, he leaves to study at the university. 

He doesn’t like being taught, not anymore, but he loves poetry and music and stories. 

And his opinion on being taught quickly changes. 

The professor of history—a wisp of a woman named Mighela who speaks half a dozen languages—sparks Jaskier’s interest in learning all over again. He’d gladly sit in that stuffy, too hot and too dark classroom and listen to her lectures, even at the crack of dawn. 

Jaskier feels free, here. Freer than he ever felt at home, even with the strictness of the academy. 

He starts to see a man for the first time. His name is Aldwin and he’s two years older than Jaskier. His father was a nobleman. His mother was a chambermaid. He was given a choice—become a monk or ship off to school. He picked his education. 

They’re not open with their relationship—they can’t be—but they don’t work to hide it either. No one cares if someone see Jaskier leaving the room Aldwin rented in the early hours of the morning. They read together in the square and at night they’d go to pubs and eat and drink and dance.

Jaskier wakes up one morning with Aldwin’s arm wrapped around him. He stretches slightly (careful not to wake his lover) and rolls into the sun. Aldwin’s beard scratches his cheek. Jaskier runs his hand along his jaw and brushes a strand of his dark hair behind his ear. What can he say? He’s always had a thing for brunettes. 

It’s nice, to lay in bed. He’s got work to do at some point, but beyond that there’s really no expectations on him. No one expects Jaskier to be who they think they should be. No one expects him to marry. 

“Morning,” Aldwin mumbles. He pulls Jaskier closer and presses his lips to Jaskier’s temple. “I don’t think we should move today.”

Jaskier agrees. 

That night, he writes a poem about Aldwin. It’s good, but it’s not great. He tugs at the ends of his hair and tries again and again and again. Everything he writes is, well, it’s _fine_ he supposed. But not brilliant. Decent poetry, all things considered, but lacking that spark. 

When he stops after class the next day and tells as much to Professor Mighela. The part about Aldwin edited out, of course. 

“Anyone can be a good writer,” Professor Mighela says. “It takes practice, certainly, but with enough effort, anyone can sharpen their words.”

“I know,” Jaskier says. “I’ve put in my time. But I don’t just want to be good, I want to be _great_.”

Professor Mighela smiles. “I’d expect nothing less.” She stands from her desk and walks to her window. “What do you see?”

“I dunno. Grass, I guess. Trees. Some students.”

“Of course. That’s what anyone would tell you. Look closer, Jaskier. What do _you_ see?”

Jaskier squints. “The trees are budding, I guess. The sun is high.”

Professor Mighela nods. “The arts of writing, poetry, and of music rely not on your skill when you set your quill to the paper. You have to be a great observer. You must look for that which others cannot see and illuminate it for them.”

Jaskier nods. 

“Anyone can be _good,_ ” she says. “Be great.”

Jaskier practices looking for that which the others cannot see. The tarnish on the ruby ring of a visiting noble—he is rich but careless. His classmate Eliha favours her right leg when she walks—concealing an old injury? 

It’s not just his sight he works to sharpen. He notices the smell of fresh bread in the bakery. The way the strawberries sit on his tongue somewhere between sweet and tart. The way his bedsheets feel against his skin. 

He notices the way Aldwin talks to the barkeep. His words are harsh. 

Jaskier notices the way he moves, down the middle of each hallway. He notices the way he speaks of his classmates when he knows they can’t hear him. He notices the looks some of the other men cast Aldwin’s way. 

Jaskier leaves Aldwin. 

He’d like to say he didn’t think twice about his decision, but the truth his he questioned his choice everyday. Is there anything he’ll ever know with any certainty? 

He writes his poems. He crafts his songs. They’re not perfect, not yet, but they’re getting better. Jaskier will keep working. He’ll keep noticing too. 

* * *

When Jaskier is twenty, he gets a letter from his mother. 

He has class still that week, but he goes home anyway. 

The burial has always happened by the time he gets there. 

“I’m sorry about Ricon,” his mother says when Jaskier comes home. 

“I am too.”

The next morning, he goes to the grave. 

Idris is there, sitting in the grass, pulling free blades and letting the wind steal the pieces away. 

“I’m sorry I missed the burial,” Jaskier says. He sits next to Idris. 

“You didn’t miss much,” Idris says. “Just a lot of weeping. Especially from Aunt Aura and Granny.”

Jaskier nods. 

He’d read the letter. Ricon met a violent end. He tried to take a harpy down by himself. He _did_ take down a harpy by himself, but not before the monster dug her claws into his chest. Jaskier doesn’t bring it up to Idris, but Idris brings it up anyway. 

“He saved a lot of people,” Idris says. “The harpy would’ve slayed half the village.”

Jaskier nods. He doesn’t know the whole story, he only knows the version that’s been told. 

“It was the lesser evil,” Idris says. 

“Mhmm.” Jaskier looks at the sky—dead and grey. He doesn’t know if he agrees with Idris, but he keeps that to himself. 

When Jaskier was younger, he always saw Idris as a bully. 

He still might be, but now he sees him for what he is: a lonely man. A lonely man who was a lonely boy with nothing better to do than bother his younger cousin and his friends. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says. “I’m sorry for everything.”

Jaskier is back in class the next week. 

“You seem distracted,” Professor Mighela tells him after class. 

“I ‘spose that’s cause I am.” Jaskier sits near her and sighs. The weight he’s carried for the past few weeks eases. He tells her what happened. 

“I’m sorry about your friend,” she says. “But it sounds like he gave his life for a noble cause. Saved a village.”

Jaskier chuckles sadly. “Ricon would’ve always wanted to hear that. He always wanted to be ‘noble’,” Jaskier says. He sighs and leans back. “I was at his graveside and his cousin said to me that Ricon’s death was ‘the lesser of two evils’. I can’t get that out of my head.”

Professor Mighela purses her thin lips. “Have you ever heard the stories of the King of the edge of the world?”

Jaskier eyes her. “I thought that was a children’s story. You’re a history professor.”

“Myths always come from somewhere.” Professor Mighela stands and moves to light a candle. “The story goes that the King of the edge of the world hired a soothsayer so that he might secure his throne. The woman did as she was hired to do and gave the king a vision of the future. She spoke of an uprising. Of fires that raged for days on end. She spoke of famine and plagues that followed. 

“So the king sent his military to town. Pulled everyone who’d ever made a whisper of dissent into the street. Their families too. Executed them all. 

“With the villagers that were left, he told them to pack only what they could carry on their backs. And he marched them further past the ends of the world. The old and young, the sick and the injured… they didn’t make the journey.

“And so the King looked around when he finally reached their destination. A small clearing in a dead valley. Safe from fire and plagues and famines and uprisings. 

“But his people had nothing. Only a few ragged tents and broken spirits.”

Jaskier listens. “What happened next?”

“The King looked over the village. His advisor stood next to him and asked if he could live with what he’d done. The King replied ‘yes.’ Said he’d do it again. Because what he’d done was the lesser evil.”

Jaskier looks at the professor. “I’m not sure I understand. History surely would've sided against the King."

She looks at him, almost pitiful. “But history is nothing but a story, Jaskier. One crafted by winners." She sighs. "The point, I think, of the King's story is that the greater evil was never real. It might’ve been real if the King hadn’t acted. But we can never know for certain. The only evil that came to be was what the King had done.”

Jaskier thinks he understands that much. “It sounds as if you don’t believe in destiny, professor.”

“Sounds as if you don’t either.” She smirks. “Might be troublesome for you. Who has ever heard of a bard who doubted destiny?”

* * *

When Jaskier is twenty-one, he finishes his studies. Earns a degree in the liberal arts. Professor Mighela offers him a spot to stay and study further, but Jaskier knows its time to leave. Time to seek his own destiny. Even if his road is weathered by cheap insults, stale ale, and low paying gigs.

When Jaskier is twenty-one, he sees a beautiful man with white hair and yellow eyes and a jawline that could cut glass sitting alone in the pub. He watches all the people but doesn’t interact with any. His ethereal eyes rest not on the other lone travellers, but on the groups of people. The friends and the lovers and the family. He’s lonely—something a Witcher was never supposed to be. 

“Three words,” Jaskier asks of him. 

The man stares straight ahead, unamused. “They don’t exist.” The monsters in Jaskier’s song, he means. They’re not real.

Jaskier knows that’s his biggest problem right there. He’s seen his village. He’s seen the university. He’s read books and listened to yarns. But he hasn’t seen the world. 

Jaskier knows he’ll follow this man. He knows he’ll find his great adventure. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the poem "Judith" that Jaksier reads:  
> https://anglosaxonpoetry.camden.rutgers.edu/judith/
> 
> It's a super cool old English epic poem about a warrior woman who saves her people by getting an old, drunk, and cruel king to invite her to his tent and then she lops off his head. It was actually found in the same manuscript that held Beowulf, but since "Judith" was missing several verses due to poor preservation.


	2. Chapter 2

When Jaskier is twenty-one, he goes on an adventure—a _real adventure_ —for the first time. He thought he’d die at least six times. Another dozen times he was sure he’d be maimed for life. 

But despite it all, he walked away just fine—with Filavandral’s lute and a new friend to boot. 

Geralt’s rough around the edges, but Jaskier sees through that. He doesn’t even think that’s a testament to his observational skills: Geralt just isn’t that great at hiding anything. He’s all grunts and ‘hmms’ and ‘fucks’, because it’s easier to huff than say how he really feels. Jaskier doesn’t take it personally that Geralt’s acting like he doesn’t care for him. It’s part of the act. Part of his image. 

After their encounter with the elves, they treck onward through the valley. Jaskier strums his new lute (and _gods_ it sounds amazing) and composes a new tune. _Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh Valley of Plenty, oh oh oh…_

Jaskier grins. Usually, getting the words right is a painstaking process that reminds him of toothache. Today, the words jump out faster than he could keep up with. 

Near sundown, they reach a village. There are still a few hours of sunlight—they could keep moving for a while. Well, Geralt could keep moving. Jaskier’s feet hurt. 

“What do you say we get some ale? Some bread and stew? Maybe a soft bed for the night?”

“Hmm.” Geralt flexes his legs against the side of his horse, urging her forward. 

“I’ll pay.”

“Fine,” Geralt says. 

The inn in the village is quite nice, actually. Nicer than the ones in most villages. Geralt ties his horse—Roach, he calls her. A beautiful mare named _Roach_ —outside the inn while Jaskier grabs a table in the tavern. He flags the bartender, orders a round of ale, and tosses the man a few coins. 

At the table, Jaskier stretches his feet out. He could get used to this life—a day of adventure in the wild and good food to end it off. A woman on the other side of the tavern keeps shooting a glance his way. Jaskier winks. She blushes. Yes, he thinks, he could get very used to this life. 

Geralt enters the pub, his cloak on and his hood up. He sits at the table across from Jaskier. 

“Why are you wearing that thing? It’s the middle of summer. _I’m_ sweltering.”

Geralt says nothing, but he does lean back and sink into his chair. 

“See?” Jaskier says. “This was a good choice. A much-needed stop. We can eat and get some sleep before we set off again. The adventures of Geralt and Jaskier—“ he stretches his hands through the air—“I like the sound of that.”

Geralt nods. Barely. Okay—his chin twitches upward slightly. But Jaskier calls it a win. 

The bartender comes around, their ales in his hands. 

“Oh thank the gods,” Jaskier mumbles. He reaches for the pitchers of ale. 

The bartender stops. He stands there, jaw set, and looks past Jaskier to Geralt. “Out,” he says. 

Jaskier blinks for a second as he tries to work through what the man said. “Out?”

“I don’t want any trouble here. We don’t serve Witchers—humans only.”

Geralt stands. Jaskier grins. _Punch his lights out, Geralt._

Geralt sizes up the man. His nostrils flare. Somewhere under the skin of his neck, a muscle twitches. 

And then Geralt leaves. With a solid stride, he pushes past the man to the exit. Doesn’t even slam the door on his way out. 

“What?” Jaskier looks from the door to the bartender. “I already paid,” he grumbles to himself as he scoops up his jacket and follows after Geralt. 

Outside, he sees Geralt unknotting the rope that holds Roach to a post in the stable. His bag is already hooked to the horse’s back. The sun already has dipped under the horizon--only a few warm colours are left swimming through the sky. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says. He jogs up to the Witcher and stands next to him. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Geralt doesn’t turn to Jaskier. He keeps working. 

“You’re not seriously leaving because of that arsehole? You could take the bartender in your sleep.”

Still busy with Roach, Geralt grunts. His favourite non-sequitur. 

“Fine, fine. I get it--you don’t want the hassle. Beating a man up isn’t the best way to get him to serve you an ale, after all.” Jaskier smiles at his own joke. “But why don’t you _talk_ to him? After everything with Filavandral today you certainly proved that you’ve got some brains in that noggin of yours--despite the number of times it's taken a beating--and a fair way with words when you string together more than three at a time.” 

“Leave it, Jaskier,” Geralt says. His voice loudens at the end. Trying to contain anger? From the back of his throat, a disgruntled noise sounds. “Some fights aren’t worth having.”

“So you’re just going to leave, then? Sleep outside? When there’s food and drink and a bed in there--” Jaskier throws his arm back toward the inn.

“That’s my plan.” He hooks his boot in the stirrup and swings his leg over Roach. 

A faint gurgling sound ripples through the street. Jaskier swears it’s Geralt’s stomach. It’s a sore sight--the man who saved a hungry village now goes hungry himself. If he’d crafted the story himself, he’d say it was too heavy-handed. 

Jaskier’s gut twists at the thought of food. It’s been a long day for him, too. One full of more excitement than he’s used to. He turns on his heel and pushes his way back into the tavern under the inn. The bartender would do well to remember he’s already paid. Two pints, he thinks, waiting for him. 

The bartender does remember him (thank the gods) and happily serves Jaskier. 

“We’re a good village,” he says as he sets the tankards on the wood in front of Jaskier. “Don’t want anyone causing trouble, you know?”

Jaskier nods. The beer is too bitter. It sits on the back of his tongue. Hops pull his throat in odd directions. For a while, he sits there and swishes the ale in the tankard. The lady across the tavern shoots him another look, smiles bashfully, and tosses her glossy chestnut hair over her shoulder. Jaskier doesn’t give her any response. He might as well be staring at the wall, for all he cares. The woman scrunches her face in disappointment and turns back to her friend. 

The world was quite unfair, at the heart of it all. The ale takes the edge off of his discomfort but fuels the injustice that burns behind his breastbone. Everyone in the tavern carries on--drinking and flirting and fighting--as if nothing ever happened. _Do they even care they would have starved?_ But, Jaskier thinks, maybe that’s not fair. They didn’t know they’d been saved. 

Jaskier clears his throat. He grips his lute with more confidence than he can muster. Across the strings, his fingers ghost. “ _When a humble bard, graced a ride along,”_ he starts, his voice shaking slightly. It’s a bit rough still, the song still needs work, but honestly? _Fuck it all._

_“With Geralt of Rivia, along came this song,_ ” he sings on. A few heads turn, a few conversations stop, a few eyes glance his way. Jaskier smiles to himself and _strums_. 

***

It’s not been dark for long when Jaskier spots the smoke billowing over the woods. He follows the hoof prints in the dirt with careful feet—he’ll never live it down if he turns an ankle. Eventually, he sees Geralt. The other man hunches over his fire, sulking. “Why are you here?”

Jaskier tsks. “How’d you know it was me? I could’ve been any poor sap. Or an assassin.”

“You’d be a piss poor assassin. You’re louder than Roach.”

“I guess subtly has never been my specialty.” Jaskier sits next to Geralt.

“You don’t have to ask,” Jaskier continues, “I can tell you’re wondering why I’m back—“

“I _did_ just ask—“

“—well, the thing is I probably wouldn’t have come looking for you, but I’ve got something for you.” Jaskier reaches into his bag and pulls a small pouch out. He swings the coin purse through the air. 

Surprise flits across Geralt’s eyes. In the moonlight, his yellow irises glow. “What’s this?” The Witcher turns the coin out into his rough palm. 

“Your share. They liked my song, you know. Asked for an encore and everything.” Jaskier grins, mostly to himself. “No one threw bread at me. Can you imagine what that’s like?”

Geralt humphs. “Something like that.”

“I brought you this, too,” Jaskier says. He pulls out a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheddar cheese wrapped in cloth. “Thought you might be hungry. I did try to bring you an ale, too, but the bartender had something against me taking one of his cups out of the tavern.”

“Hmm.” 

That night, Jaskier sleeps on a bedroll. He’s slept outside before, but never without any cover. When he peers up, over the tree trunks and through the leafy canopy, he can see stars. They move, he knows, but the movements are too subtle for him to detect. 

On the other side of the smouldering fire, Geralt snores. He’s out to the world, much more accustomed to this type of rest than Jaskier. Jaskier can’t help but wonder if Geralt sees stars’ dances. He wonders if he hears the resonance of their orbits, the music of the spheres. 

* * *

When Jaskier is twenty-two, he fucks Geralt for the first time. Well, if he wants to get technical, Geralt fucks him, but Jaskier feels there’s no need to get that pedantic. He’s getting ahead of himself, anyway.

They’ve been travelling together for the better part of a year, though not all at once. Jaskier supposes their paths are like the treads of carriage wheels on the same route: mostly together, occasionally veering off, running beside each other, but ultimately reaching the same destination. Jaskier likes it like this. He’s never felt so alive (as cliche as that is) and he’s made a fair share of coin playing in the taverns. Even a few courts invited him to play. Once, he arrived in a village and a few townsfolk were humming his tune before he played. Knowing that people love his work makes him feel as if he’s made of lightning. The buzz that ignites the base of his skull is more brilliant than any ale or kiss he’d ever tasted. Not to mention he’s done a tiny part (okay, a large part) of fixing Geralt’s image. Life for the Witcher has improved--of that, Jaskier is certain. He can see it in little ways. The way Geralt’s shoulders no longer lock up when he enters a tavern. An ease in his step. He’s not careless--far from it--but he no longer acts if he’s about to be mauled by a Cockatice at any moment. 

And, speaking of Cockatice, Geralt left a few hours ago to slay one. Rumour was the beast has been lurking in a swamp not five miles down the road, picking off weary travellers who stop to rest. While Geralt’s gone, Jaskier tries to get some rest. He’s gotten used to sleeping outdoors (although he still much prefers the comfort of a roof and the warmth of a fireplace) and the bugs that nip at his neck don’t bother him anymore. He swats a fly away from his neck. They don’t bother him at all. 

At some point when the moon is high over the lake in the East, a crack rings from the woods. Jaskier bolts up. His heart thumps against his stomach. He may be many things, but an action hero isn’t one of them. He fumbles for his pack and roots through his things--mostly papers with lyrics scratched out and rewritten half a dozen times. At the bottom of his bag he finds what he needs: a small blade. His fingers slip around the gilded hilt. 

Jaskier stands in a low squat. A defensive position--he’s more steady when he’s low than when he’s upright. He tilts his head toward the source of the sound in the wood, trying to make out what it is. It’s much too dark to see anything. The fire died hours ago. Through the trees, a few rays of half-moonlight cast shadows. Jaskier points the blade of his dagger forward. He swallows and breathes deeply. _This is it_. He knew his adventures would lead to a rough end. There isn’t really any other option. His only wish is that his mother doesn’t hear the news of his grizzly demise, no matter if it’s a bandit or Cockatice that’s coming for him. 

“ _Jaskier._ ”

Jaskier starts. His dagger clatters into the dirt. He stumbles backward, catches his feet in his bedroll, falls to his ass, braces his hands in front of his face, and closes his eyes. “Oh gods, don’t hurt me.” He readies himself for his end. 

Nothing comes. He opens his eyes slowly. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” It’s Geralt. Of course. The darkness obscures his features, but his hair, grey and dirty, catches stray beams of moonlight. 

_Why aren’t his eyes glowing?_ Jaskier brushes the dirt off his pants and stands. “Thought you were something else.”

“Hmm.” Geralt walks across the campsite. 

“Did you kill the Cockatice, though? That’s the important bit, really. I don’t want to get snapped up and devoured by some beast in the middle of the night.”

“Not a Cockatice. It was a Basilisk.”

Jaskier tilts his head in surprise. “A Basilisk? Really? I thought those were rare.” He pauses and drums his finger against his jaw. “Much harder to rhyme things with ‘Basilisk’ though. Cockatice is a nice easy word, don’t you think? Maybe I can just change it. On the other hand, the Basilisk is a much more impressive beast.” He looks to Geralt, even though he can’t see much of him, and waits for his approval. Or at least a grunt of acknowledgement. “Geralt?”

A low, throaty hum comes from the Witcher. “You reek of fear.” 

Jaskier pauses. He’s used to making full conversations out of three words response, non-committal noises, and slight movements of Geralt’s jaw. This, though, he hasn’t accounted for. He’s ready to spit off his response--ready to claim how much he quite enjoys being alive, how little he likes bandits, and how grateful he is that no overgrown snake’s ever pulled his muscle off his bone. Before he rattles off his usual string of witty responses, he stops himself. The words fizzle in the back of his throat. _You reek of fear._ It wasn’t a taunt. It was an accusation. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, “I’m not afraid of _you.”_

Geralt steps closer. He squares his shoulders. His nostrils flare. He presses his leather-armed chest into Jaskier’s; his face so close he can feel the Witcher’s breath against his cheek. “No?” His voice was low, angry and hurt--meant to intimidate Jaskier. 

Jaskier looks up. Where he expected to see Geralt’s usual glowing eyes, he sees only two pits of black. Dark as ink. Dead veins trace under his eyes and show through his pale skin. 

_When Witcher’s hunt, their eyes turn black as poison. They’re half-feral beasts at the best of times, but when their eyes turn black, they’re no better than a monster._ Ricon’s words rattle in Jaskier’s head. 

He reaches his hand up and runs his thumbs over the dark viens. He rests his hands on the sides of Geralt’s head, cupping his face. “No,” he whispers. “I could never be afraid of you.” He pulls Geralt’s head down and lifts himself up onto his toes and presses his lips against the Witcher’s. He waits for Geralt to part, to straighten up and step back after a chaste kiss. 

Geralt’s hands cups Jaskier’s ass. He pulls him closer. He _bites._ Geralt pulls Jaskier’s lip in his teeth, so lightly, and slips his tongue between his lips. _Gods, does he know how to kiss._ A groan catches in Jaskier’s throat.

“You like that?”

Is he smirking? “Yes,” Jaskier whispers, shuddering. “Gods. Don’t stop.” 

Geralt’s other hand runs down Jaskier’s back. A tingle shoots down Jaskier’s spine in the trail of Geralt’s fingers. Bliss clouds his world. Vaguely, he’s aware he’s being lifted off his feet. He shifts his legs around Geralt and kisses him, hungry and desperate, and presses all the force of his adrenaline into his movements. He feels himself stiffen. 

Geralt returns the fervent movement. They flutter together in the dark. Jaskier’s back presses against a tree. He spins a weave of kisses down the Witcher’s neck. With his head in the crook between Geralt’s neck and shoulder, he can drink in his smell. Jaskier knows whatever scent he can pick up must be dulled in comparison to what Geralt smells. He doesn’t care. He laps up the musk, the heavy scent of smoke and leather. Geralt’s hardness presses into his own. 

His hands run through Geralt’s hair and trace down to his chest. Jaskier tugs on the leather armour. “Please,” he breathes. He fumbles for a strap. “Get this off.”

Geralt pauses. He pulls his mouth away from Jaskier’s. “Are you sure?”

“Always,” he says. 

They fumble together. An awkward dance as they learn each other’s rhythms, stripping each other in quick movements. Jaskier moves his hands, searching for new parts of Geralt to grab. He kisses the inside of Geralt’s thighs, his lips carving a pathway upwards. Jaskier’s head swirls in lust. 

The Witcher’s hung. There’s no other way to put it. Jaskier pulls the man’s length into his mouth and wraps his lips around the tip. 

Geralt _shudders._

There’s something powerful, something satisfying about reducing Geralt to this state. They’re both undone at the hand of the other. 

Geralt grips Jaskier’s hips. He turns the bard over, his thighs pressing against him. 

  
  


Jaskier’s breath quickens. The heat in his groin tightens. “Geralt,” he moans. He parts his legs. “Oil’s in my bag.”

“Hmm.”

Not a moment later, Jaskier feels the cool oil slide down the clef of his ass and trickle down his thighs. A finger slides through the oil and works him open. “ _Geralt. Please_.” He can’t stand it a moment longer. His head spins and his blood pounds and his toes curl. He’s going to be spent before the main event starts. 

The Witcher grabs a handful of Jaskier’s hair. He tugs the bards head back, making Jaskier groan in pleasure. As his mouth parts open, Geralt enters. Jaskier’s eyes roll back—the world around him slips into a haze that’s somewhere between reality and dream. 

Geralt’s all hands and quick thrusts and hair tugs. His weight holds Jaskier down—he’s not used to being manhandled like this. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t like it. Its sparking a whole new fire of arousal. Geralt brings his head to Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier tries to turn his head around, to look Geralt in the eye, but Geralt’s weight holds Jaskier steady in his place. 

“Mine,” he growls.

_Yours._

Jaskier feels teeth on his shoulder. A light nip. A not-so light nip. Explosions of pin pricks settling into his skin. Wet warmth. 

He’s spent. The muscles in his arms weaken. He leans forward, still riding the wave of pleasure. 

A moment later, Geralt comes with a thrust. The Witcher collapses on Jaskier. Jaskier feels Geralt’s heartbeat against his back. His chest rises and falls with slow breaths—Geralt’s not even panting. 

They spend the night that way, tangled together in the quiet of the forest. Jaskier doesn’t fear any bandit or monster. He could stay like this forever. He turns his head lightly and steals a kiss from Geralt. 

His eyes are still pits of darkness. Pools of stars. 

“Does it hurt?”

“Hmm?”

“Your eyes, when they’re like that, does it hurt?”

“Side effect,” Geralt mumbles, his eyelids lowering with sleep. “Stings a bit.”

Jaskier runs his fingers down the dark veins. He’s never seen Geralt like this. Maybe he doesn’t want to be seen this way. Dark eyes, pale skin, white hair… Jaskier presses his lips to Geralt’s temple and nestles into his embrace. 

When he wakes, the sun is flitting through the trees. A beautiful and full summer’s morning. In the distance birds sing. 

Jaskier aches. He’s sore, mostly in all the right kind of places, but his back does ache a tad from the night on the bedroll, bent in an awkward position. Light bruises dust over his hip bones. If he looks in a mirror, he’s certain he’ll see a path of hickeys down his neck and over his back. A wake of pleasant destruction. 

Geralt’s weight is still against his back. Usually, mornings with the Witcher are defined by Geralt knocking about the moment the sun’s up while Jaskier lazes about till mid-morning. It’s nice, he thinks, as simple as it is. Just to rest like this. Nowhere to be, no one to answer to. 

He stretches. Geralt stirs. Once the sun warms the day a trifle more, maybe they can bathe in the lake. “Good morning,” Jaskier says, a smile stuck on his face. 

Geralt sits. He’s quiet--wearing an expression as if he’s gotten lost somewhere in the moments between sleep and waking--and blinks. “Jaskier,” he says. His eyes trace over Jaskier’s back, down his legs. His gaze rests on his arse. 

Jaskier opens his mouth, ready to make some witty remark about Geralt’s prowess in slaying beasts. 

  
  


“Last night was a mistake,” Geralt says. He stands, dresses, and stalks off without another word. 

Jaskier sits on his bedroll. A hollowness stirs in between his ribs. He watches Geralt leave. He’s gotten good at that bit, but it’s never happened quite like this. A scream bubbles in his throat. “Geralt,” he whispers. He knows the Witcher will hear, despite the fact he’s well on his way into the woods. “Don’t leave.”

Geralt leaves all the same. 

* * *

When Jaskier is twenty-three, he meets Geralt again. They don’t talk about what happened. They never do. They travel together again for a few weeks and fall back into a comfortable rhythm. Jaskier sings and jokes. Geralt mutters and ‘hms’ and hasn’t learned any new words, though he’s gotten more creative with a few of his insults. 

They part ways again. Jaskier travels on his own more. He sees the nasty underbelly of humanity. When he was a child, he knew that there was something in the world called evil. But that word was reserved for the darkest of beings: monsters and warlords and sadistic kings. He never knew evil could be so banal. Evil could be the man sitting at the bar or the washer woman. The ones who seem like decent people, just trying to make a go of it, but are rotten at their cores. They listen to Jaskier’s songs with a smile, they’d hire Geralt to save them, and they’d spit on the Witchers face when he came back around. Evil is evil. There’s nothing lesser or greater about any of it. 

Rot, Jaskier decides, really is the best word for what stirs in these people hearts and minds. A deep and festering corruption that feds on hate and fear. Could it be pared away? Jaskier hopes so. It might just take work. 

* * *

A few months later, Jaskier takes Geralt to the banquet as a bodyguard. Jaskier’s had his own adventures while Geralt was off saving Striga, but none of his own adventures make for nice ballads. 

The night of the banquet in Cintra starts well. Jaskier swears he sees a smile on Geralt’s face. Of course, it’s while he spun a tale about Jaskier being eunchic, but still. Small victories. The night ends in a twist of chaos that can only happen when Geralt’s around. 

He catches up with him afterwards. “Wow. Just wow, who would have thought the night would turn out like this? After all your cankering and complaining, the night ends like this. What a night. What. A. Night!”

“Fuck off, Jaskier.”

“Oh, come on, you must have something to say about it all? Maybe I should offer my congratulations, eh? You do have a child, now. So much for your whole ‘I don’t want anyone needing me’ thing. ”

Geralt grabs the front of Jaskier’s shirt and pulls him close. “You,” he spits, stumbling on his words, “I didn’t want a scene, not tonight. You dragged me into this mess of destiny. I want nothing to do with it.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in destiny,” Jaskier counters. 

“I don’t.” He pushes Jaskier back lightly--even though he makes a show of it—and storms off down the hall. 

“Neither do I,” Jaskier says softly. 

Geralt turns back, this time. He stares at Jaskier. 

Jaskier can’t pull his eyes off Geralt. How does the man look as breathtaking in a silk trader’s outfit as he does in worn leather? His hair’s neat and clean, for a change, pulled away from his face and showcasing his strong jaw. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says. He ducks his head and averts Geralt’s gaze. He swings his lute to his back and leaves the castle. It’s time to stop grovelling around a man who doesn’t want him. 

* * *

When Jaskier is twenty-five, he hears of his mother’s illness. 

He returns home to visit. 

The blacksmith’s son died of the plague last winter. Isopel is a widow with three sons. 

Idris married a farmer’s daughter. They’re expecting their first child, come spring. 

His mother dies and Jaskier chokes back his tears. She lived a good life. When they burry her, he’s surrounded by siblings and aunts and nieces and nephews and cousins he hasn’t talked to in years. They’ve heard his ballads. They want him to sing for them. 

His Aunt Klara hums along to his tune. After it’s done, she grabs him by the sleeve and pulls Jaskier close. “Careful of that Witcher, boy,” she says. “You might think he’s your friend, but he’s not. He’ll turn on you—whether it’s for some coin or just animal instinct, I don’t know—but he will turn on you. Best be ready for when he does.”

Jaskier jerks his arm away. “He’s my friend,” he says. His Aunt isn’t listening. 

The day after his mother’s burial, he climbs to the top of the hill that overlooks the town. He lets the pain that crescendos behind his skull flow free. His village hasn’t changed. Not at its heart. 

Jaskier doesn’t belong here anymore. He doubts he ever did. 

* * *

When Jaskier is twenty-seven, he meets the Countess de Stael. She’s gorgeous. Sharp cheekbones with a wit to match. Her dark hair is streaked with flecks of red and, when she rests in the summer’s sun, gold flecks jump out. 

She’s an accomplished painter. Portraits. Still life. On some late afternoons, Jaskier lays around in her bedchamber strumming his lute and singing while she brushes her paint on the canvas. He tells her of his travels with Geralt and she listens with intent. She’s been sheltered, most of her life. She longs for an adventure too. 

On a stormy afternoon, she dumps him. 

Jaskier blinks, feeling every bit the idiot people usually assume he is. “I don’t understand.”

The Countess smiles, but it doesn’t reach her warm eyes. “I cannot be with one who’s heart so clearly belongs to another.”

The next week, Jaskier hears word that Geralt is in town. 

* * *

  
  


Jaskier’s stops counting his age. Time all blurs together in one way or another. The quest to find the dragon is just another stitch in the road. A big stitch, he’ll give it that. 

Geralt’s leaving, again. Off on the road. Jaskier doesn’t know where the Witcher will end up, but it can’t be good. Times are changing. The world’s shifting. Jaskier feels the unease. The taverns are full of people, huddling together, whispering about war. Supplies are being hoarded. Soldiers are growing their ranks. Mages too, come to think of it. 

Jaskier sits on a rock and wonders where to go next. Another court? Back on the road? He’s getting too old for all this. 

Yennefer sits next to him. A twinge of jealousy stirs in his gut—somewhere close to nausea. How can he ever compete with her glossy raven hair? Her violet eyes? Her overall enchanting stature?

“He cares for you, you know,” she says without looking him in the eye.

Jaskier chuckles darkly. “Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what he meant when he said I was shovelling shit all over his life.” 

“You’re right, Geralt is so good with words he would’ve just said exactly what he felt.”

Jaskier quiets. He can’t argue with that. 

Yennefer sighs. “He came to me, when you were dying. Said he’d pay any price, as long as you were safe. The look in his eyes… he was half-mad and stewing about what he’d said to you. He couldn’t lose you.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what to say. He kicks at the dirt with his heel. “Yennefer, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Did you really mean what you said about my crow’s-feet?” He prods at his face. It’s easier to joke than to admit how he really feels.

Yennefer, surprisingly, chuckles lightly. “Geralt and I… our connection is too tenuous. You need to help him. Guide him.”

“I thought you two were bound by destiny? How can I compete with that?”

  
  


“Destiny has little impact,” Yennefer says, “on one who rejects its call. I’ve been around a while, and if I can say anything with certainty that I’ve learned over my years, it’s this: the one who meets destiny is the one who set out to find it.” She nods her head, slightly. “Where do you stand, Jaskier?”

Jaskier can’t say he knows.

  
***

A few weeks later, he hears of Cintra’s fall. News of such a horrific defeat travels fast. Faster, still, if one knows where to listen. And Jaskier does. When the news comes that the princess vanished in the chaos of the attack, Jaskier’s heart twitches. It could mean many things, really, but he can only hope for one. 

He sets off on the road. He ditches his fine clothing for simple rags. These are dangerous times and the last thing he needs is to draw unwanted attention to himself. Jaskier lets his beard grow in--as patchy and awful as the thing is, it helps him blend in. Attention is a dangerous game. One that Jaskier is done playing. He even leaves his lute behind. It’s safe with the Lord in the far mountains from where he left (he swore he’d never pawn it and Jaskie believes him, but he also knows what people will do when they’re desperate) and he promises that’ll he come back for it. One day. 

Jaskier camps out in the woods. He’s dirty--grimy and sweaty in all sort of unpleasant ways. Over the past weeks, he’s been making his way across the continent to the fight. He should be running the other way. In this clearing, at least, there’s some safety in numbers. A few other travellers stop to rest for the night, though they’re all moving in the opposite way: away from the brewing war. The way any sane person would be moving. 

Before he sleeps, he heads down to the river. There’s only so much he can tolerate and Jaskier decides it’s better to wash his spare shirt and trousers before the teeth of winter sink into the valley. The tops of the mountains are already dusted with snow. 

Jaskier rests against a rock, careful to keep as much of himself dry as possible. He dunks his dirtied shirt in the cool stream of water and works out a stain of mud with a brush. 

A few feet down the riverbed, a teenage girl fills a bucket. She looks worn too. Bags of exhaustion hang under her eyes. Her light hair is yanked back in a limp braid. Under the weariness, there’s something almost familiar. 

Jaskier stills. “Pavetta,” he calls. 

The young girl freezes. Her hands grow white against the handle of her bucket. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else, sir,” she says. She dips her head in a polite nod. “My name is Fiona.” ‘Fiona’ turns on her heel and pushes her way back up the bank by the river, toward the campsite. She moves fast and doesn’t look back. 

Jaskier abandons his damp shirt and unwashed pants on the rock. Bits of cold water cling to the clothes he’s wearing, but he can’t focus on his discomfort. He scrambles up the hill after her. “No, no, I mean you no harm.” He opens his palms and stands with his arms to his side. He’s got nothing to hide. “You’re Cirilla, aren’t you?”

The girl’s eyes widen in fear. She looks like a doe, stuck in panic before it’s shot. 

“I met your mother, once—“

Before Jaskier can finish his sentence, a rough hand yanks him back. His right arm is wrenched behind his back and held at a painful angle that sends bolts of pain up his arms. At his throat, a sharp blade grazes into his skin. One false move and Jaskier’ll bleed out in this clearing. 

“I can’t let you leave here,” a familiar voice growls, “not with you knowing what you do.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier stammers. He lifts his free hand up in surrender. “Geralt. _It’s me.”_

The sword drops from his throat. Jaskier turns. 

He’s never seen Geralt look surprised before, but the Witcher’s eyebrows are quirked up and his mouth is parted. “Jaskier,” he says. He pulls Jaskier in and _hugs_ him. “You’re alive.”

Jaskier certain his expression rivals Geralt’s. 

Later that night, after being properly introduced to ‘Fiona’ and a dinner of venison, Jaskier rest next to Geralt while Ciri crawls in her tent to catch some rest. He sticks his feet by the fire and warms his toes. With any luck, the deep ache that’s settled into Jaskier’s joints over the past weeks will work itself out, but Jaskier doesn’t hold out hope. He knows how these things work. His father twisted his ankle in a gopher hole one summer, many moons ago, and swore it never was the same after. 

“So,” Geralt says. He runs his hand over his jaw. “That’s new.”

Jaskier rubs his own wiry beard. “You like it?”

“Hm.”

Jaskier laughs. “I’m not offended. I don’t like it much myself, if I’m being honest, but it works wonders to blend in. You should try it, really.”

Geralt _chuckles._ It’s a deep and throaty rumble and for a moment Jaskier thinks he’s gone insane but no, it was really a laugh. “I’m sure a beard would work wonders for me,” Geralt deadpans. 

“Well, you never know until you try.” Jaskier swirls the herbal tea in his mug. It’s a nice defense against the creeping cold, and it’s (allegedly) going to help his knotted muscles. The conversation between him and Geralt tapers off. 

“Look,” Geralt says. He shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry for what I said. After the dragon. I was mad at everything. My life, my luck, Yennefer. And you, a little, but I had no right to blow up at you like I did. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Jaskier’s surprised for the second time that day. “Uh, thanks. Geralt. I’m sorry too, for what it’s worth. I never meant to drag you into anything.” 

“I was never anywhere I didn’t want to be,” Geralt says. He’s leaning closer, only a few inches from Jaskier. “So let me apologize.”

“Did Ciri put you up to this?”

“She helped me arrive at necessary conclusions.” Geralt’s so close now. Stubble clings to the line of his jaw. His eyes glow in the low-firelight. His expression is softer than Jaskier’s used to seeing it—his lips curve up at the edges, his brow is unfurrowed, his eyes are wide open—but the man’s face hasn’t changed since the day they met in the tavern in Posada. 

“I’ve missed you,” Jaskier says. If Geralt’s laying his heart bare, the least Jaskier can do is the same. 

“I missed you too.” Geralt looks at the dark sky. “I never thought I’d say that. To anyone.”

Jaskier, feeling brave, reaches for Geralt’s hand on the log. He tangles his fingers into the Witcher’s rough and calloused hand. 

Geralt doesn’t pull his hand back, but he does sigh. “Jaskier…”

“What Geralt? Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about this. That you haven’t wondered what would have happened if we hadn’t stopped after that night.” 

“Of course I have,” Geralt says in a flustered voice. “I couldn’t get it out of my mind if I wanted to.”

“Then why haven’t we been doing this for the past fifteen years?”

Geralt balks. “I _hurt you._ Jaskier. I hurt you. When I saw your body in the morning… with the bruises on your hips and the bite marks on your back… I was sick. That night, I’d been a brute. I’d been…” Geralt trails off. He swallows. 

Jaskier fills in the end of the statement: _I’d been the monster everyone thinks I am._

The absolute _dolt._

“Geralt. You did nothing that I didn’t want you to do.”

“I know we got caught up in the moment, but—“

“Geralt. I’m not some blushing maiden. I can handle myself, you understand?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier leans back. He won’t push this, not if Geralt’s clearly so against it. 

The Witchers hand runs up his arm. His thumb ghosts over the line of Jaskier’s beard. “You’re certain?”

“Always,” Jaskier breathes. 

Geralt’s hand slips to the back of Jaskier’s head and pulls him into a kiss. It’s soft and slow and everything that it wasn’t last time. Well, everything except Geralt. The Witcher’s the same. Same musky scent and same low growl in his throat and same slow heartbeat. 

Jaskier tilts his head back. He gasps, pulling in the moment. 

“Tent,” Geralt whispers in his ear. 

The tent is nothing like Yennefer’s—it’s small and cramped with nothing but a bedroll and a bag inside. 

They take their time undressing the other, peeling off their clothes and tossing them aside. Jaskier’s hands explore Geralt’s chest before they run lower. There’s a new scar or two he hasn’t seen before. He traces a puckered crescent mark on the Witcher’s thigh. It almost looks like something _bit_ him. 

“Long story,” he mumbles, pulling Jaskier’s hand up. He presses Jaskier’s finger to his lips. “We have to stay quiet or we’ll wake half the campground.”

Jaskier nods. He turns onto his hands and knees and starts to sink back when Geralt stops him. A rough hands slips around his waist and turns Jaskier so he’s facing Geralt again. 

“I want to look at you,” the Witcher whispers. “I want to see your face when I undo you.”

The bastard. 

Jaskier melts. Geralt reaches for oil from his bag and works Jaskier open with his fingers. He scissors slowly and Jaskier bucks at every movement. 

When he sinks on Geralt’s cock, Jaskier gives in. A small moan escapes his throat and Jaskier bites down on his lip to stop it. 

They move in tandem, thrusting and giving way to the other’s movement. Jaskier’s hands roam through Geralt’s silver hair. Geralt’s hands grip Jaskier hips. 

“I’m yours,” Geralt whispers in Jaskier’s ear, his mouth touching the skin. “Always yours.”

Jaskier comes with a cry. He doesn’t give a damn if he’s woken up the whole campsite. He keeps bucking his hips, riding up Geralt’s pulsing length. 

Geralt groans when he comes. 

Jaskier watches the Witcher’s golden eyes roll back in ecstasy. Jaskier could get very used to this. 

They curl up together on the bed roll after, spooning each other. Geralt strokes Jaskier’s hair with an air of absent mindedness, as if it were the most natural thing to be pressed together, still naked, enjoying a moment of rest. 

“You’re an idiot, you know,” Jaskier says. 

“I know.” Geralt pulls a strand of Jaskier’s hair behind his ear and kisses his shoulder. “But remind me why, this time.”

“We could have been doing this for _years._ Back when I’d be ready for round two by now.”

“Hmm.” Geralt runs a hand down Jaskier’s arm. “Guess we’ll have to make up for the lost time in the morning.” 

  
  


Jaskier smiles to himself. “Yes, we will.” 

“I should check on Ciri, in the meantime.” Geralt untangles himself from Jaskier and pulls on his breaches. “She gets afraid, sometimes. Since Cintra. And we’ll have to leave tomorrow.”

Jaskier sits and nods. “Where were you planning on going?” 

“We need to find Yennefer. We need the mages’ help if we’re going to get through this.” Geralt knots the string of his pants. 

Jaskier nods along. It’s a solid plan, he will admit. Evil creeps over the continent and disguises itself as salvation. Years ago, Jaskier would have said that they had no choice but to stop it. But they _have_ a choice. They could run away, live in the hills and eat fruit and fuck until their hearts gave out. But they’re in a dingy tent, hungry, and readying themselves for war all the same. Doesn’t that make all the difference? 

Jaskier supposes it’s the same with love. Where’s the fun if it’s all predestined? Where’s the adventure?

“And you’ll come too, right?” Geralt looks at Jaskier with wide eyes. 

“Of course, Geralt,” Jaskier promises, “you should know by now that I’ll always choose to follow you.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
